


I'll Never Look Behind Me

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Series: Free As A Bird [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, OT3, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-19 00:33:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2367698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos finds himself a captive, but his friends won't let him continue to suffer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Never Look Behind Me

**Author's Note:**

> There is some (canon-typical) description of violence/torture at the beginning, but it's not too graphic so I'm giving a warning here rather than a tag.

A steady throbbing at his temple welcomes Athos back to consciousness. Rough hands strip him of his weapons and doublet, haul him upright, and the nausea that churns in his stomach and swims through his head hampers what weak resistance he offers.

He is little more than a ragdoll, a puppet, powerless.

Memories swirl, flit, chase each other away again; it had been a surprise attack now reduced to indistinct shadows, a flurry of movement, the heavy blow that had brought darkness…

The harsh bite of coarse rope at his wrists jolts Athos back to the present as his arms are yanked away from his body and secured, holding him fast, arms outstretched. A crucifixion without cross or nails.

Taking a slow, deep breath, Athos quickly assesses his surroundings without so much as raising his head: a straw-strewn floor, orange torchlight flickering on cold stone walls. A small, unremarkable cell that betrays no indication of location.

There is no sign of anyone else having been brought here, and that fact alone gives Athos hope.

He swallows, blinks the blood from his eyes, and raises his head, defiantly meeting the black gaze of the man standing before him. Uneven teeth flash in a malevolent grin of greeting and a hand flicks in a silent signal. At the command, a second man – huge, solid – strides forward. Athos sees him draw back his fist but can do nothing to avoid the blow.

Hard knuckles find their target, strike just below his ribs, driving the breath from his lungs and sending pain flaring from his wrists to his shoulders as the ropes prevent him doubling over.

Clenching his teeth, Athos settles his features back into an impassive mask, ready to bear whatever lies in store for him with a stoical resolve to remain silent and unyielding. Whatever these men are after, they will not obtain it from him, whatever their methods.

As time passes and no questions are put to him or demands made of him, Athos begins to suspect an agenda beyond merely seeking to extract information from one of the King’s Musketeers. This is some kind of twisted game of which Athos cannot guess the purpose.

Only when his captor draws a knife from his belt does the first trickle of real fear pool in his stomach. His face betrays nothing, however, even as the blade is held up before his eyes, steel glinting fiery orange with the reflection of the dancing candle flames.

With his free hand, the man grabs the front of Athos’s shirt and slashes the knife through the linen, shearing it from his body. Athos starts, jerks away as far as his bonds allow. It’s not enough, and soon his shirt is in tatters on the ground at his feet.

Ignoring the destroyed garment, his captor’s gaze is fixed upon the linen bindings wrapped tightly around his chest.

“Well, what have we here?” The question is rhetorical, but the low menace in his voice sends a shiver crawling down Athos’s spine. Not waiting for a response – knowing he won’t receive one – the man slips the tip of his blade under the edge of the lowest strip of cloth and slowly draws upwards, slicing easily through the bindings, heedless of how the knife catches at Athos’s skin. A thin line of blood blooms along the midline of his chest.

Athos cares little about the minor cut, however, for he knows there is worse to come. There is nothing he can do to prevent the bandages falling away and revealing his now unstrapped wings.

An evilly gleeful smile spreads across his tormentor’s face, twisting into a rictus grin. He ducks under Athos’s arm to get a closer look.

“A Musketeer with wings!” He sounds sickeningly pleased by his discovery and Athos’s stomach lurches. “She was right.”

_She?_

There is only one woman he could possibly be referring to, one of the few people who know this secret. A sudden swell of roiling emotion – lust, anger, betrayal, disgust – surges through Athos, and everything else fades, leaving a jumble of confused thoughts and unwanted memories. What was her purpose in sharing such information with this man? What had she hoped to gain? Is it some kind of revenge?

The hand on his wing jolts Athos back to the present. He twists away from that unwelcome touch but the fingers grasp and pull, wrenching him back and sending pain shooting through his shoulder. Overwhelmed by the throb of agony as it pulses along already straining muscles, he is barely cognizant of the fingers finding a new hold, clasping tight around a fistful of soft, downy feathers.

Until they tug.

A cry escapes his lips at the sudden sting as the feathers pull free and tears spring to his eyes. He blinks them away, grits his teeth and forces himself to breathe. A small respite is afforded him as his captor enjoys the moment, watches his struggle to retain his composure, and as his senses return he hears sneering laughter echo in the small chamber.

There is a curse on the tip of his tongue, but Athos will not give the bastard the satisfaction of a response. Instead, he straightens his back, awaits whatever may come next with a calm resolve that belies the tempest raging in his head.

Fingers viciously clutch at a number of flight feathers and Athos’s breath catches as they are ripped from his flesh.

* * * *

A hand falls on his shoulder. Athos flinches, anticipating what is surely to follow, bracing for a blow that doesn’t come. Instead, he hears his name, spoken in a voice as familiar as his own.

It’s a struggle to lift his head, open his eyes, and when he looks upon Aramis’s face he wonders if it isn’t a hallucination. Then fingers brush along his jaw, and that gentle touch belongs incontrovertibly to Aramis.

Relief washes over him, mirrored in Aramis’s eyes until it is replaced moments later by anger directed at those responsible for Athos’s imprisonment.

“Let me cut you free.”

Aramis cuts the ropes that hold him aloft and, knees buckling beneath him, Athos would have dropped to the floor had it not been for Porthos, beside him in an instant, a strong arm around his waist. He tries to bear his own weight but his legs have no substance; he can do nothing but sag against Porthos’s solid bulk as the blood rushes back to his fingers, making them burn with vital fire.

Aramis tries to take a closer look at the injuries marring his flesh, but the light in the room is weak. There is little more he can do at present than drape a cloak about Athos’s shoulders and motion to Porthos to guide their brother outside. As he is led through dim corridors, Athos’s eyes dart wildly left and right, fearful that the true perpetrator is lurking somewhere close by, watching the results of her latest scheme.

Misinterpreting his agitation, Porthos is quick to reassure him. “Don’t worry, we got ’em.”

“No.” Athos shakes his head; they don’t know, have no idea of the black-hearted force concealed in the shadows, the malevolent spirit that dogs his heels. “It’s her. It’s always her.”

He misses the look of confused concern that passes between Porthos and Aramis, and his friends decide against asking for clarification. Getting Athos out of this place and ensuring he is not badly wounded is their only immediate concern.

The journey back into Paris passes in a blur as Athos fights exhaustion. Safe now, it would be only too easy to lower his guard, but that dark phantom refuses to let him rest. He takes comfort from the strong arms that encircle him, hold him secure.

At Aramis’s direction they head for his apartments, where there are plentiful medical supplies. Porthos helps Athos to the bed, carefully lowering him to the mattress. A moment later, Aramis presses a cup into his hand. Brandy. Athos drinks it in one long swallow, welcoming its burn.

“Would you like another?”

About to say yes, Athos checks himself. He wants nothing more than to invite the insensibility the drink would provide, to welcome its dark embrace and let it slowly erase the memories. But he will not choose oblivion, not this time, not when the strength of the love he can feel from these two men is enough to banish those shadowy demons.

“No, thank you.”

Surprised, Aramis searches his face. Athos meets his gaze, earnest. All he needs is for Aramis to stay beside him, give him something to focus on and stop him plunging headlong into the darkness as he has done so many times in the past. Aramis gives him a nod of understanding and lays a hand on his thigh; he is going nowhere.

Athos shivers when Aramis slips the cloak from his shoulders in spite of the fire Porthos is stirring to life in the hearth. Athos fights the desire to wrap the cloak back around himself and curl up, but Aramis is already opening his surgeon’s kit and Athos knows his friend will not allow him to draw away, refuse his care.

The heat from the growing flames begins to drive the chill from his bones as the room warms, and Athos closes his eyes, feels the sure touch of deft fingers as they gently seek out each wound. He will accept the treatment while wishing it didn’t have to always fall to Aramis to patch him up.

Athos endures Aramis’s ministrations with the same stoic acceptance with which he suffered the harsher treatment of his captor, but Aramis is gentle, his touch benign, tender. He washes the dried blood from the gash at Athos’s temple, smoothes liniment on his bruises, and applies a poultice to the cuts and the welts circling his wrists.

It is only when Aramis’s fingers move to a wing, held tight against his body ever since they had found him in that grimy cell, that Athos gives a start, pulls away.

“I’m sorry.” Aramis draws his hand back, afraid he has hurt Athos, but it is not the pain Athos flinches from. He instinctively wants to keep the evidence of this particular violation, and the betrayal that lies behind it, hidden; the secret that he had come to relish sharing with his brothers has been tainted.

“Let me see,” Aramis says softly. “I’ll not leave any wounds to fester.”

Athos relents, his reluctance easily overpowered by Aramis’s desire to help, his evident and deep-rooted concern and affection. He unfolds his wings slowly, wincing at the protest from the muscles of his shoulder. It’s a reaction that doesn’t go unnoticed. Athos can’t bring himself to look at Aramis, but hears his sharp intake of breath all too clearly.

“Oh, _mon cher_.”

Athos need not look. He knows what a state his wings have been left in: ragged and blood-streaked, with raw patches where the feathers have been torn out. There’s a low hiss of Spanish as Aramis curses the men who inflicted such wounds.

Alerted by the mournful blend of anguish and anger in Aramis’s voice, Porthos moves closer to see what has triggered such a reaction. Disbelief, pain, and fury battle for dominance in his expressive eyes as he surveys the damage to Athos’s wings.

“Who could do such a thing?” Porthos’s outrage is palpable, his voice a gravel-laden growl. “I’d kill ’im again given half a chance.”

“Porthos.” Athos understands that need to protect, to defend his brothers, but he speaks softly, waits for those dark, enraged eyes to meet his. The raging storm within them gradually calms, and he beckons Porthos to his side.

“I am safe,” Athos assures him. “They will grow back.”

Porthos nods slowly; he has no reason to disbelieve Athos, but there’s a hesitation to his acceptance, as if he knows there is more to the story, something deeper, an unspoken concern that Athos is reluctant to voice, much less offer any guarantee that it is concluded.

The words he are waiting for are _it’s over_ , but they catch in Athos’s throat. It will never be over, not while she is still out there, plotting, scheming. In place of uttering assurances he knows to be false, Athos takes Porthos’s hand in his and squeezes. Not completely placated, Porthos nevertheless accepts Athos’s gesture for what it is: confirmation that they are here, alive, together. That is what matters.

Porthos remains at Athos’s side as Aramis carefully inspects each wing, running his fingers along the fine bones and cleaning off the worst of the blood.

“I can’t feel any broken bones,” he announces when he is satisfied with his work. “But there may be some muscular damage that will heal with rest and time.”

There is no need for Athos to voice his gratitude, but he does so anyway. His eyelids are heavy and his limbs feel laden with lead; Aramis smiles at him and places a hand on his shoulder.

“Perhaps you should take a little rest now,” Aramis suggests, and Athos hasn’t the energy to protest.

Porthos draws Athos into his arms and settles back against the head of the bed, Athos held snug to his chest in a tight, protective embrace. As soon as his eyes close, Athos’s mind immediately begins trying to replay events and puzzle out their meaning. Now is not the time to dwell on such a sombre subject, however, not while he feels the indisputable tug of fatigue creeping over him. Had he been alone, he would have returned to the brandy bottle in an effort to silence the thoughts, but he instead forces himself to focus on the steady rhythm of Porthos’s breathing, the heat of his body where they lie pressed together.

Slowly, his mind clears and the soothing brush of Porthos’s fingers over his undamaged feathers and the regular beat of his heart lull Athos into sleep.

* * * *

When he opens his eyes again, he has no idea how much time has passed, only that he must have been lying atop Porthos for quite a while. He raises his head and is greeted by a smile that shows no sign of discomfort.

“I’m sorry.” He apologises nonetheless and ignores the ache of his bruised flesh to push himself up.

Porthos reluctantly releases him. “You’ve got nothin’ to be sorry for. You c’n stay here as long as you like.”

“You would soon become uncomfortable if I were to remain lying upon you forever.”

As Athos’s words register, Porthos’s smile grows into a breaming grin that banishes all trace of his earlier anger. It’s infectious; Athos does nothing to stop the smile that tugs at his own lips as a joyful light dances in Porthos’s eyes.

A small cough interrupts, draws their attention to the third man in the room. Aramis is sat on a stool, a bundle of fabric in his lap, and an expression upon his face that is trying for stern. The effect is spoiled by his inability to fully suppress a smirk.

Raising an eyebrow in what Athos guesses is supposed to be an insincere attempt at admonishment, Aramis holds aloft the linen item and gives it a meaningful shake. “While the pair of you have been lazing in bed, I’ve been busy.”

Athos’s brows knit as he looks more closely at what Aramis is holding.

“Is that one of my shirts?”

“Yes,” Aramis admits, a little uncharacteristically bashful all of a sudden. He flips the garment over and hands it to Athos. “I’ve made a small adjustment.”

On the back of the shirt, two long slits have been cut and hemmed. Athos immediately guesses their purpose and is touched by the ingenuity of such a simple solution.

“Allow me.” Aramis stands and helps Athos pull the shirt over his head and slip each wing carefully through its corresponding hole. Taking a step back, he admires his handiwork. “A perfect fit, even if I do say so myself. Now you don’t have to be bare-chested all the time.”

“Pity.”

“Porthos!” Aramis swats Porthos on the shoulder, but his chiding tone is marred by his grin, almost wide enough to match that of Porthos.

Athos’s own lips curve into an amused smile, but it is a moment before he can speak, overwhelmed as he is by Aramis’s gesture.

“It _is_ perfect, Aramis. Thank you.” And because that seems barely sufficient, he tugs Aramis down into a kiss.

The past can never truly harm him, not with these men at his side.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from Supertramp's 'Goodbye Stranger'.


End file.
